


Severance

by pertines



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:00:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pertines/pseuds/pertines
Summary: personal works
Kudos: 1





	Severance

The first place I went to was my car.

My car was one of two parked in the sprawling lot. It was cold, but not too cold. Warm enough that I could lay back and peck at the book I'd taken with me to read. That distraction was not enough to tear me away from the present. I reached down and pulled the lever to recline the driver's seat, slept sandwiched between upholstery foam and hide, a layer of cold air between them. And me. I was shivering in shock. I played some music and thought about anything that I could to keep me from this. Somehow.

It was too late when I woke up: 2300. Too early. I was hoping for morning. I was so hungry, too, I knew I needed to eat, and use the restroom, but they wouldn't let me into the hospital. A tour of my old home was in store. 

The convenience store I got gas from was the one I'd go to every week in high school. A friend I used to talk to was working the night shift. He said hi. I couldn't speak. I was in a trance. Hospital road was dark as ever. Instead of turning in, I drove further, to the paved trail I used to adore as a younger man. I needed something to do. The fields were so dark, so cold, and empty. That was when I knew I'd never forget that night.

In May, the weather warmed some, and snow was less likely. Greenery pushed up from the soil as it does every year. Bittersweet. Recognizing I was fortunate to enjoy this beauty during hardship was the easy part. 

In August, I used a scalpel to cut grass from the earth. I used my hands to pull rushes from the earth. I sewed and wove and shaped, so I was taught as a little one; just how my mother did, too. Something in me hurt terribly. I felt that someone else had ripped and pulled at me so much, all that was left were roots hanging from my core. Just like my home, I was planted again and again til dust flew inside me. Nothing felt green. The birdsongs I knew and loved sounded foreign. The language I once learned felt new, painfully fresh, introduced over tender flesh that had not yet had the chance to heal its protective skin. 

From my mother: the hands, the craft, the skill. From my father: the meaning, the purpose, the heart.

It took me a long time to understand that a knife is a tool of connection, not of separation. When something is severed, something else always connects. When I cut the long grass with care, I know it will grow stronger next year. When something dies, something else will be born. This is the natural balance, the language you never learned.

You: the logic, the grammar, the how. Me: the language, the feeling, the why.

I took my scalpel and ripped through everything I thought was there. See it clearly now. This was all under my blade beforehand. You might have prepared the stitches, wrapped new gauze, and applied antiseptic, but I am here to say that this is not enough for the dying. Through your practice, you killed what life was left. That was all your part and you played it well. Thank you for freeing us both from the burden of our mutual patient. 

When I think of home, I think of bright green fields, lush deltas, wide-open prairies, towering pine trees, the sugar-gum, the sycamore shade tree. I think of my mother and my father. I think of the lessons they taught me. Only I know what those lessons are. I need no one to feel whole now that he is gone. I hope you understand that. I don't need nobody but Him and me. I can make up my mind, I already did.

Those who know that language know when to stop. They know how much they need. A man among his crops knows what they say to him. A man far away from his fields can't listen to what his crops need. He chooses to take, and take, and take. He runs his fields dry, until there is nothing left for him. But the earth still gives plentifully: home to worms, beetles, birds and mites, weeds and wildflowers; water for the saplings and trees; nutrients for the plants and animals. But she will not give herself to the man who takes. 

Maybe the man will leave his field, disappointed with his lack of returns. There are other patches of earth for him to work. This one has not served him well for the crop he needs to plant. But will he come back when he sees from his high tower that it is a paradise, green and bountiful with whatever life he misses most? I think so. That is his nature. By then, however, the weeds are tangled thick. The roots ensnare his feet, the birds cry for him to leave. There is no space for the man here. Without the combine tearing through her, earth set her own roots. She grew her own life. She is her own roots, her own earth, her own home. Her own happiness, love. 

Stuck in that freezing cold room. I slept under hide, hoping the next day would be even colder. I was warm with my thoughts. Even then I held the scalpel. I knew what would soon arrive.

I learned my lesson. Now it is time for you to learn yours.


End file.
